In the floor of my home office
rest seven boxes that contain
belongings I used to store in
a work office, till I retired.
Still they sit there, without moving,
contents out of sight, out of mind.
I last looked inside those boxes
coming upon nine years ago.
I may just wait till I die and
am standing at the pearly gates
where, according to Jay Leno,
St Peter will ask, where’s your stuff?
I will have a ready reply.
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